


Abiding By Her Notion

by oREDACTEDo



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Action, Also tough as nails, Angst, Anxiety, Brainwashing, Building Relationship, Coping with feelings, Ethical Dilemmas, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fight Scenes, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Internal Conflict, Nightmares, Optimistic Main Character, Racism to Ghouls, References to Drugs, Reluctant Hero, Romance, Secrets, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, personality clash, some language, trust building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24172309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oREDACTEDo/pseuds/oREDACTEDo
Summary: Vera has been building herself relationships, caps, and experience in the unpromising Capitol Wasteland. She's gotten her hands dirty yet fights to keep her morals, sticking to the plan of finding dear old daddy. But when she spotted a ghoul owned by some shady bar keeper, she just couldn't ignore it.Vera doesn't know what she's getting herself into once she's bounded by a literal contract to the brainwashed merc. Surprisingly enough, neither does he, but her smile is starting to become more addictive to him than a jet high.These are the tales of Charon and Vee as they brave the destroyed world together, headfirst into the worse in hope for the better.
Relationships: Charon (Fallout)/Female Lone Wanderer
Comments: 13
Kudos: 26





	1. Interesting Find

**Author's Note:**

> Mash up of brain cannons with a FLW based on my game character and Charon.

When she had first heard of Underworld it was during a small chit chat with Gob. The Ghoul behind the bar--the one who bore a not-so-invisible leash--would speak of the place bittersweetly. It was as if he longed for it just as much as he was glad it was gone. _A city of Ghouls_ he called it, and the Lone Wanderer was captivated by such a concept.

 _The world didn't accept Ghouls?_ That was her first thought, and her small bits of ignorance were like a cold cup of purified water to the few nice people in Megaton. It was strange, finding someone who knew very little of what was considered the world, but refreshing.

Being there, physically, she could quite understand why her dear bartending friend found some comfort being away from home. The slow tune playing hushed from her pip-boy seemed to have only made the stagnancy of the air stand out more so. Mold crippled her nostrils, the small flares collapsing as she wrinkled the muscles of her face. The essence of old cigarettes and cigars alongside the light stench of aged urine from the stalls a few yards away captured her senses in mere moments. Regardless of the discomfort she was experiencing, the former vault dweller found this place to be an appropriate stop. Outside was mayhem in shades of green--the brutal strength and raw muscles of the Super Mutants proved to be the better opponent today, and the woman's wits had barely managed to have her escape alive. Thought not unscathed.

"Not liking it already, Smoothskin? Well, get used to it. Cuz no one here's gonna change anythin' just cuz some guest is around. The Ghouls here can't smell anythin' anymore, so just a heads up. I expect it gettin' worse."

"I appreciate the warning," the woman had taken the Ghoul's abrasiveness with little issue. It was a terrible world, and after months of living in the Wastes she learned to not take things too personal. She was lucky--if she were born or raised to be a brat then she would most likely have died long ago.

The large door opened with a pop, a looming skull gazing down upon them with empty eyes. Willow kept on talking; she had mentioned that the place was a section of an old museum. It would explain the crumbling monuments and faded portraits. When the two entered, people stared. It was a strange kind of staring, too. As Willow said, Underworld would only get a couple of smoothskins a month to come visit--a rare enough sight to catch their attention. But it was an empty stare, and far from welcoming. They could have cared less of her existence, but as she passed by the first initial citizens who lounged the area, those stares started to gain a bit of spark.

"Ya see that?"

"What."

"That's that girl Ol' Three Dog goes on about. Lil' Miss 101."

"The vaultie?"

A whisper about her was like screaming in her face. It stood out, painfully, and though she were famous for good deeds she was never the type to enjoy a limelight. So when Willow glanced behind her and called her _popular,_ it only made the young woman press her lips together before giving a shrug. The female Ghoul laughed.

"Not a fan of being the center of attention?"

"I never was."

"Well, you're in the wrong place _Lone Wanderer_ , because not only are you Three Dog's chat of the hour, but you're the only human here."

_I see._

_… shit._

A shrug. A deep, burdened sigh. The Lone Wanderer scratched the side of her temple, casting discreet looks at the area around while consciously avoiding the gaze of the ghouls. Not that they frightened her, but she had learned that staring toward any soul out in the Wastes was like asking to be killed directly. Ghoul or not. And just like that, she heard the voice of Three Dog chatting up a storm in the corner where a Ghoul stood. A hairdresser looking gentleman, which was funny. Most of the lot here didn’t have hair, and the way his milky eyes somewhat sparkled at the sight of the former vault dweller’s full, thick head of dark locks only proved her suspicions.

Three Dog was talking about her again. Going on in a tangent on how she had vowed to repair the satellite dish in DC, that way his voice could be heard clearly through the arid lands of the capitol. He’d mentioned something about her being brave and heroic, and asking that people gave her an easy time. Strange, she felt she should have been upset. Only days ago did he tell her those words that made her shoulder slump.

_I’ll tell you about your dad, but only if you do something for me first._

_And it isn’t going to be easy…_

Easy it wasn’t. She went all the way there, blasting through mutants and tiptoeing over traps, only to find out the dish was beyond repair. She figured she should have heeded the radio host’s warnings, but the thought of having to raid the space museum for a presentation model of a satellite dish that probably wouldn’t work left a nasty feeling in her mouth. Not that it mattered—she had to go there either way now.

“Say, I didn’t catch your name?” Willow’s voice crackled. The Lone Wanderer had discovered growths within the throats of deceased feral ghouls, which would explain the strained sounds to the voices of the more unfortunate individuals lurking beneath the moldy walls of Underworld.

“Vee, and you?”

“Willow,” she announced. “I usually don’t go asking for people’s names, but since yer obviously special I figured why not?” They stopped at the center of the foyer, surrounded by art so decimated, they appeared more like relics. With a wrinkly grin, Willow gave her a firm nod before taking her leave. “Welcome to Underworld, and enjoy your stay.”

The last bit seemed a little harsh. Not threatening, but sarcastic. Vee seemed far from worried—rather, she was amused given she was able to buddy up the guard of all people—and set off to find the local inn.

***

“Who’s the merc?” Vee asked.

She’d been residing in Carol’s Place for well over a week now, having utilized the time to heal her more outrageous injuries. Her finger rubbed against the exposed area of her right arm, the sleeve momentarily pulled up to expose a nasty intravenous entrance that had been healing. Radaway was pumped into her system two days ago, leaving her with a splitting headache—and unfortunately constant need to vomit—and after having discovered Vee’s close friendship with Gob, Carol had insisted she stayed longer to recover. Finding a friendly face in the wasteland was rare, so she simply couldn’t turn down the offer. Though Greta came off as bitter at first upon the mentioning of Carol’s son, she warmed up quickly once Vee stated how distasteful she found the Ninth Circle. Piled up with Crowley’s constant bitter remarks, it led Greta to be all the more polite to their newest devoted customer. Vee was—as the two ghoulettes now see—rather loaded in caps, both from her heavily illegitimate employment with the Brotherhood of Steel and from the countless side jobs she’d performed in her months in the wastes, saving random blokes on the dusty roads being bombarded by supermutants or raiders. On one occasion, retrieving some runaway pack brahmin.

All which had lead Vee up to this point, sitting at the bar with her first alcoholic drink in hand and a messy state of bed hair, asking a question that had been sitting on her mind since the moment she saw him. The one and only time she’d set foot in the Ninth Circle, she spotted a tall and menacing looking ghoul standing in a dimly lit corner. It was Vee’s instincts to smile at strangers, and of course it earned her nothing outside of a distant, untrusting glare, but he was interesting, nonetheless. Sporting heel to head in quality—yet well used—leather armor and a pump shotgun in his unstrained, large arms. Biceps that could kill, Vee realized, and despite the fact that the man in mention was in fact a ghoul, she still willfully admired his physique. Well trained and perhaps the strongest that resided there, and yet she hadn’t seen him since. Which could only imply that either Vee’d been spending too much time cooped up with these nice ladies, or the poor fellow had been holed up in that depressing joint the entire time.

“Who?” asked Greta, but Carol instantly spoke from her corner where she’d been stocking up the pantry.

“I think she’s talking about Charon.”

“Charon?” Greta responded. “You mean the slave bouncer?”

Vee paused mid-sip of her brandy, fixing her stare toward Greta. “ _Slave_?”

“Everyone here knows Charon’s a slave,” Greta scoffed, obviously hating any conversation regarding to the Ninth Circle. “No matter how much Ahzrukhal tries to say otherwise, he’s a dirty bastard that’ll make drunk idiots turn their noses from his evil intensions.”

Greta’s bitter complaining aside, Vee scratched the side of her head curiously, enjoying the hum of the booze in her head that was covering up that suck, radaway side effect. “So, this guy owns him then?”

“Unfortunately. The man rarely eats, never sleeps. It’s obvious he hates it, but he can’t say nothing about it.”

Odd—why didn’t he just leave? Why didn’t he just turn his heels and walk off? Vee had heard of slaves with explosive collars before, rumored to be from Paradise Falls. From what she could gather on her single chance of observation, this Charon fellow had no collar on. There was more to this, and Vee hated prying by means of gossip. “Interesting.”

A careful look was casted her way from Carol. “You’re not thinking of getting involved, are you, Vera?”

As well as Vee could feign innocence, the intoxication made it near impossible for her to hide that smug smile. “Relax, Carol. I wouldn’t go getting myself killed before sending your letter over to Gob.”

“You best not get yourself killed after that either! I swear, you youths can be so reckless, smoothskin or not.”

Vee chuckled. Paying the tab, she returned to her little area and laid upon the cot. Dirty, though cleaner than most, she leans her head back against the stiff pillow and stared up at the moldy, cracked ceiling in thought. A _slave_ , she though, how horrible. But how was she to help with that? It wasn’t like she enjoyed getting her hands dirty. Killing Moriarty was the first life she’d ever taken that wasn’t trying to claim her own. She tried convincing herself that in doing so was more than just getting much needed information of her father, but also saving the lives of two very kind people. Nova no longer had to lie with dirtied men her whole life, and Gob… well, now he got to be a proud bar owner just like his mother. It didn’t help that they just knew who done it. People didn’t die from assassinations in their sleep out of nowhere, and the fact that everyone hated him only had Lucas letting it slide.

Everyone knew, yet no one did anything to punish her. In fact, Gob and Nova were so damn grateful that they treated her like family. _Wonder if Gob’s taking good care of Dogmeat? Or maybe I should be thinking that the other way around. And I hope Nova stops leaving my door unlocked…_ Vee buried her fingers deep into her locks.

 _A slave to a dirty bar owner… and he hates it,_ she thought. Sighing, she closed her eyes and rolled over, instantly regretting it as a wave of nausea hit her in the back of her stomach. Pressing her skull against the pillow, she contemplated a little longer before passing out. She’d see what she could do for this Charon, but she promised herself that she wouldn’t go killing another scumbag bar owner.

As much as she hated them.


	2. Nothing Nullifies the Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeing someone who is brainwashed isn't that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLW is a quirky character.

_So much for not killing him._

The bottom of her boots barely held a grip against the tiled floor. A pool of blood and sinew was all piled up into the back corner of the bar, mixing heavily with alcohol that poured from the counter as the blasted bottles laid astray. The walls were painted in droplets of liquid ruby and gun ash, the burrows of shotgun pellets making masonry bee-like holes on the drywall. With a scrunched face Vee looked up from Ahzrukhal’s remains to observe Charon, who stood by the entrance of the bar staring off into the distance.

_I wasn’t expecting this to happen._

Who would? Right after the exchange, her new companion simply waltzed on over to the bartender area and blew his former employer a new one. Vee could still feel the Ghoul’s sleezy breath painting her face, playing on a charm that could whisk away almost anybody who didn’t know better. Vee wasn’t the wisest in the world—far from it—but after what happened back in Vault 101, she could smell deceit when it was in front of her. Not to mention the way Ahzrukhal talked about him. Putting the blame on the slave for being one wasn’t the most logical of arguments, but talkers didn’t need facts when they had the wits to weave up their own reasonings. Rubbing at her nose, she covered up the stench of blood and whiskey. The moment the shot broke loose, some people came by to peak, but no one really cared. It was as if they knew it would happen one day. That Charon would lose his cool and gun down the proprietor of the Ninth Circle maliciously.

_It’s not like_ **I** _killed him or anything. If I’d known, though, I’d might have stopped him._

Might have—the key phrase—she might have stopped him. Vee caught herself as quickly as she thought it and in turn bit her own finger. Killing crappy assholes wasn’t in her interests, but she figured it was better than killing someone else. Like kids, or old people wasting their ears to that Enclave nonsense. Thick, heavy feet crunched dirt and glass beneath it. Glancing up to see Charon shadowing her, he spoke with a harsh voice that reminded her of gravel.

“Forgive me, I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

She let out an exasperated sigh and smiled up at the rather tall man, “I don’t doubt that. Now then.” Bending over the sloppy remains, Vee pried open the tight hold of Ahzrukhal’s dead hand to retrieve a small cloth bag of 1,000 caps.

“He won’t be needing this anymore,” she smiled, swiping the blood off with her fingers gingerly. Admittedly, Charon wasn’t expecting her to smile. Nor to take back the caps. Her hands were small and fair, callouses in the works but no where near as most. Skin that dirty shouldn’t have appeared so soft, but he couldn’t deny that of all the smoothskins he’d ever seen, she was by far the literal _smoothest_.

Vee said something—for whatever reason, Charon concerningly didn’t pick up on it—and as she made way for Carol’s Place, he followed suit without a word. Upon their entry, Carol’s eyes homed in on the placid, hauntingly armed bodyguard stalking closely behind the Lone Wanderer.

“Vera!” she announced with as much disappointment as a mother ought to. “You didn’t!”

It was the blood in her hands that alarmed the ghoulette. Vera wiped at the nasty stains against her pants fervently, her lips slipping with a chuckle that sounded too lighthearted and sweet for someone sporting a laser rifle behind her back. “Ahh, this isn’t what it looks like ladies, really.”

“Do explain it then, because I’m not liking what I’m seeing…”

Story time.

The women started talking. Charon remembered hearing several of his previous owners all complaining about how talkative that sex could be. To a man like him, everyone talked too much: from Ahzrukhal’s outside thinking to the raiders that ran their mouths as they tailed Charon while he was out running errands. Even when they died, they were far too noisy. Not that Charon was one to complain. Noise didn’t burden him as much as most. He was simply observing. He knew a bit about these two. Carol had been around for a long time—perhaps one of the oldest there. Greta was someone he recalled Ahzrukhal hating, but for whatever reason he’d never sent Charon himself to finish her off. Instead, the sleaze lived it in his fantasies. A world where there was only one bar in Underworld, not that it would get him that much more income. The community was small, and the guests were few and far between. Vee was following Carol around like a confused teenager as the ghoul was packing her belongings with some nonperishable snacks older than the smoothskin herself. At some point, Greta had snuck in a bottle of amber brandy while her partner wasn’t looking.

“You get my boy to write back to me.”

“I will.”

“And you write too if you aren’t visiting. Have it sent on a caravan to be safe.”

“Is this what it’s like to have a mother?” Vee mused.

Carol smiled, “Yes, it is. Now you be careful.”

Those eyes of hers looked behind Vee’s shoulder to stare at the strange, hulking mass of a man behind her. Charon’s eyes narrowed, his hands gripping into fists.

_Fact: Successful intimidation often discourages violence._

The phrase repeated in his mind as his expression turned uglier. Before Carol could so much as gulp, Vee had touched her shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I made it here on my own, right?”

“And now you have Charon?” Greta asked.

“No,” Vee looked to him, her warm look making his already sedimentary mind drawing blanks. “He’s free to go.” Those words were the epitome of unfamiliar. He’d heard them many times, but never in that way. In that context.

Free to go?

The hell did that mean?

With her canvas satchel in hand, the woman waved various faces goodbye before heading out. At the entrance, it was Willow to give her a final set off, slipping a cigarette upon her ear with a weathered smirk.

“You’ve turned into my favorite smoothskin,” the front guard stated.

Vee smiled, “Is that the rum talking?”

“Get outta here, you crazy kid.”

Odd, how acquainted did this smoothskin get? Admittedly, Charon had been watching her for the days she was there. Ahzrukhal had said that she was something worth paying attention to. The list of reasons was long: she could have had money, she could have had information, she could have been a threat. Charon was taught that the latter mattered most to him. Made him grip his shotgun tight whenever she stalked her way by the entrance of the bar, but only ever entering twice. First on the night of her arrival, and second being earlier today when she had purchased his contract. They’d been walking for a solid ten minutes, having avoided the deep supermutant-infested trenches when Vee finally turned to face the man. He was so tall that she almost strained her neck looking up at him.

“Remember what I said in Underworld?” she inquired. Staring down at her hauntingly quiet, the bodyguard made no response. “I said you’re… free to go.” A curt nod from Charon, though his expression was far from what she was expecting. Should a man finally unleashed from his binding chains be excited? Relieved? Lips pressed into a thin line, the woman chuckled a little too harshly, earning his dangerously narrow gaze.

“Free. As in you can go and live and do as you please.”

“That is outside of my contract,” Charon’s gravely voice responded.

Within an instant, Vee was puzzled. Contract? Reached into the pocket of her blue vault suit, she retrieved the aged holodisk. “You mean this thing?”

“My contract,” he verified, the consonants so punctuated it was like a flurry of knives flew from his mouth.

Wincing, Vee glanced at it incredulously. _He’ll serve anyone who’s in ownership of his contract._ That’s what Ahzrukhal said, but she figured there was a catch. A bomb, or maybe a drug slipped into his system, but when Vee asked or even implied as subtly as possible in her short conversation with Charon, he utterly denied these accusations. Nothing held him into such a tight wounded frame—or position—but the contract itself. _This tiny holodisk is making him do all this?_ Honestly, Vee couldn’t bring herself to believe such a thing. Was that even possible?

“You’re shitting me, right?” she laughed, but the serious look on the ghoul’s face had her snickering die down into a dull ache that lingered in her chest. Shoulders drooped, her brows arching low, and now she felt bad for making fun of him. “Well, what nullifies it?”

“Nothing,” he stated harshly.

“That can’t be true. Even peace treaties can be broken.”

 _“ **Nothing**. Nullifies. The **contract** ,”_ Charon almost seethed, forcing the words out as clear as his thick, heavy voice could. The woman rose her hands up defensively, an obvious look of discomfort plaguing her eyes, but Charon was instantly back to normal. He didn’t reach for it; he didn’t touch her. Didn’t even so much as spit on her. Only made his point before returning to that obelisk-like state. A pillar, with an unreadable expression and milky blue eyes so distant she felt the moon itself was closer to her. Sighing, Vee popped her pip-boy open and inserted the holodisk into the compartment.

If talking sense into him weren’t possible, then she at the very least had to understand the parameters which limited this man. Together they listened as a strange voice of a man began speaking into the recording device.

_“This is the employment contract of a conditioned scout-classed soldier labeled Charon. Employee is indoctrinated with basic servitude parameters: adequacy in basic comprehension, obeying of verbal and written commands, and total commitment to the contract holder. This conditioned individual perceives that his sole purpose is to serve their employer. Disownment and free will is beyond their capabilities. The moment a task failed—in example refusal to perform duties perfectly or the death of employer—the conditioned individual is trained to execute termination order. In the event that one is disowned, they were execute termination order. In the event that-”_

Vee stopped the recording altogether, feeling a wave of anger wash over her. Who the hell made this? Were they even still alive?

“What happens if you execute termination order?”

“I kill myself,” he explained rather dully, as if it were some normal statement.

 _Oh crap,_ Vee thought, instantly biting her nails. That could only imply that Charon—in his own mind—is incapable of being free. That he wasn’t allowed to live his own life as he pleased and couldn’t make his own decisions outside of basic needs. And that meant that ultimately she couldn’t set him off that easily. Not unless she somehow convinced him. Growing up, they never taught her how to counteract brainwashing in the vault.

Damn.

_What do I do then?_

What indeed, especially since her mind had already been racing on what to do about the whole Galaxy News Radio situation. About finding her dad, and then after finding him. Would she return to the vault? _Could_ she if she still had Charon? After what Vee did to the Overseer, she wasn’t sure if Amata would even look at her the same ever again even without Charon around. At the very least he wasn’t dead. She had no choice but to shoot him in the hand. The man was armed and about to kill her.

Charon was still staring at her, awaiting orders more than likely, and something told her he’d wait a million years for the sake of pleasing her. Not because he wanted to, but because he _had_ to. All these years of working hard, studying to become a doctor or therapist—only to get fucking hairstylist in the stupid G.O.A.T. exams—not once did she ever have anybody bend over to serve **her** of all people. Owning a slave—a literal _brainwashed_ _slave_ —was the last thing that would help her suffering sense of morals.

“You do understand what conditioned means, right? They _made_ you this way, it isn’t natural,” her attempts to reason with him were met with a literal brick wall. No, really, she felt as if she were speaking with a wall. Not so much as a blink came from him. Whatever it was she was saying, he just wasn’t receiving it. Or perhaps he totally was listening to her, just choosing to not give a flying fuck. “What do you want?” she asked, to which the man gave her a totally unreadable stare.

“I don’t want, I only serve the contract holder.”

“Picture a world where you could have a choice in the matter,” she suggested.

Charon growled, “I don’t.”

“I know that’s what you believe, it’s _just_ a _notion_. No harm in imagining. In a world where you could have a choice, what _would_ you want then?” she tried to tweak the question a little.

Finally, he changed it up a bit. “I’d **want** for you to make a decision.”

A little sass goes a long way. Vee had to make a double take to understand that he wasn’t even going to humor a harmless _what if_ instance. With hollowed cheeks she inwardly groveled, crossing her arms and popping a hip out in defeat. _This isn’t going to be a quick fix, even after all those psychology textbooks._ Peculiarities never ran dry out in the wastes. They were plentiful and came at a cap per the dozen. Did she miss her life of normality back at the vault? A quick survey of Charon: tall, overwhelming, and absolutely hardened. No a single guard back home would beat him at an arm-wrestling match, his biceps told her so. And with the way he glanced for a split second the distant radroach that scurried from one bush to another revealed his keen perception. Before her was a living human weapon, and sure enough he could kill her with professional ease. In his mind, he was nothing outside of that. A scout-classed solider meant to listen to whatever bloke brought him out and carried around some stupid holodisk with his name on it.

“Charon,” Vee began, “I will pay you 10,000 caps to walk away right now. Forget all about the contract, walk away right now and live your life.”

That would have gotten his eyes bulging from his head if he cared for money. Yes, that much was a lot, but he’d seen folks loaded to the bone with caps. An escort to Tenpenny Towers once brought him and Ahzrukhal seated amongst rather rich individuals, and though they greatly detested the presence of ghouls, they had a sense of willingness to work with their kind if they were fluent in the universal language of _money_. Ten grands were leaning toward that adult talk, but Charon was the wrong type of person to bribe anything with. Without so much as earning an utter from him, Vee pressed his lips into a thin line. Her mind was at a blank. _Okay, what do you do when they turn down money?_ Not even Jericho turned down money when she paid him to stop with the advances. Of course, it didn’t work, and after disappearing for a handful of days he came right on back. At the very least, she was getting wiser.

Flashing Charon a smile, she gave the ghoul a friendly pat against his chest. He stared, a bit of a dumfounded look slipping passed his otherwise stone gaze.

“I guess you’re going to have to be stuck with me then!”

Proceeding forward, the ghoul continued following her pace with ease. “I’m a busy woman. For weeks I travel, sometimes wherever the wind takes me.” No response—damn, she couldn’t dissuade him from wanting to follow. Vee tried to up the ante. “On occasion I’ll take a break in my home in Megaton, where a gargantuan **_bomb_** is left active in the middle of the city.”

“Three Dog said the Lone Wanderer defused it,” Charon said, watching as Vee’s shoulders jerked suddenly at his words. Never would he admit it, but he was weary that his employer was nothing but an oaf. A nobody who had lots of money and guns, but nothing to show for it. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks as she spun on her heels to face him. A cloud of dust dirtied their ankles while she stared up at him with a dull look in her eyes.

“I own a vicious attack dog, and he smells awful.”

There was an unamused look in the ghoul’s face, staring with a hardened gaze at his new owner whose crown of the head barely paralleled his clavicles. Eyes wide, she huffed, clearly failing with her last and final attempt to scare him off. Surely, this man’s contract was the real thing, and he took it to beyond heart. It was his very life. Perhaps making jokes of it was a bad start. With a lazy smile she turned back around, continuing forward into the hot baking wasteland.

“You listen to the radio too, huh?”

GNR played in almost every room back in Underworld. Charon nodded—he knew who she was. Knew enough to where the looks were either super deceiving, or the radio host was sputtering out nonsense about her. Either way, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He would follow her everywhere. From the ends of the earth to the shithole center of the infect capitol city and not so much as bat and eyelash. All because of the contract.

_At least you aren’t the worse person in the world to “own” him._

“Well,” she grunted, staring up at the bright, clear sky. “I’m sorry for lying about the bomb then, but it really is going to be rough with me. No standing in a nice quiet bar corner for hours on end, and I talk an awful lot. You can ask my dog… and Charon?”

Charon responded with a dry grunt, feeling the rocks crumble beneath his feet as he stalked after her long shadow.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “This isn’t definite. If you ever feel inclined to leave me, then just do it. I may have _bought_ you, but I did it for the intention of freeing you. Besides, I… got my money back, so I suppose that means I don’t _technically_ own you? … I’m trying to find a loophole here, alright?”

Having somebody considerate of his feelings was weird. Extremely foreign. And the mercenary wasn’t sure how it would all pan out in the long run. Surely, she was making a mockery out of him. Undoubtedly, she’d turn on him at some point and blast at his knee cap. She was insane, or maybe the mistress of cruelty.

“You know it takes two to make a conversation,” she chimed, to which he responded back gruffly.

“Not interested.”

It wasn’t an order, after all, and they both well knew she wasn’t going to make him do it. Gritting her teeth, Vee stared out into the boiling horizon and grumbled.

“Alrighty then.”

This was going to be interesting.


	3. Observing Her Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vee and Charon have been spending some nights at Megaton. After three weeks, he's finally starting to wonder just what his new employer is really capable of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character development is so fun.

They had only been back for a couple days. Vee had presented some concerns prior to their arrival, worried that Charon would have difficulty settling into the Megaton home. Upon first setting foot into the bustling community Charon’s form grew rigid. Apparently he wasn’t a fan of crowds, nor did he enjoy being stared at all the time. He wasn’t the only ghoul in the premises, so Vee had considered that perhaps it was just his stature alone that earned him all the unwarranted attention.

A 6’7”, lean, mean, towering ghoul machine wasn’t exactly the norm there.

Though, Charon wasn’t the type to complain. He swallowed the discomfort down like the hardest liquor, doing his upmost best to not displease the woman which currently held the purpose to his existence. Even if her dependability were questionable at best. She’d pick up on his untrusting mannerisms quick enough, and insisted that he needn’t follow her around whilst she ran her small errands: picking up their meals, playing with the kids, attending the bi-weekly meetings with Lucas Simms in regards to how the town’s been holding up. After careful observation, Charon had concluded that Vee was genuinely the Lone Wanderer, that she was in fact a heavily considered voice for the Megaton people and was undeniably famous—and infamous—within the wastelands. Especially now that she’d performed that hefty favor for Three Dog. The voice in the airwaves sung praises of her day and night, as if she were some vigilante from beyond. A hero of the wastes.

Lil’ Miss 101.

_The Lone Wanderer._

A staple household name now. Which could only suggest in Charon’s paranoid mind that she turning into a bigger target than she already was. Perhaps the biggest he’d ever had the pleasure of working for. And that meant pushing out a harder workload. The intensity of his following only grew from there. He was always near except while at home, where he gave her some much needed privacy. Charon settled for living downstairs, regardless of how much Vee suggested he lived in the spare room adjacent the loo. Rather, he settled for staying in the dinky broom closet below the staircase, surrounding himself with tight iron walls that turned hot from the summer sun which baked the metal home. Like a cage, or maybe a furnace. But Charon wasn’t bothered by these things, given he had some seriously mystifying endurance.

“Awe, mommy misses her little Gob?” Nova teased, her sultry voice smooth like honey for most. She’d given Charon the warm welcome by gracing his arm and asking directly, _now who’s this big guy?_ To which Vee had kindly responded, _A friend, though he prefers that I refer to him as my bodyguard._ A professional, the people thought, and they thought nothing of it. Ever grateful that Vee had come to his rescue, he surveyed the area of Gob’s saloon with a literal _burning_ distrust for every human being in existence.

Meanwhile, Gob groaned as he passed a cold Nuka Cola across the counter to everyone’s favorite Vault Dweller. “Knock it off, Nova. He’s technically your boss now,” Vee winked, hearing her female friend’s snickering from behind. Those slender arms wrapped around Vee’s neck teasingly. Charon did everything in his power to not pull the redhead into a choke hold then and there.

“Yeah, but he’s a sweetie~. The most he’ll do is school me like a daddy before letting me off the hook…” Nova hummed.

“Yeah, yeah, have yer fun. I’ll write a letter to Underworld when I close shop,” Gob uttered as he dried a brandy glass with a muggy towel. “Glad hearing that sick bastard Ahzrukhal’s dead. Damn do I wish to have seen that.” The songs of the Ink Spots played in the background eerily from a small, rusty radio. Its little light casted a dingy glow across the countertops. Vast walls of shutter metal hummed from all the bustle of the people rooming upstairs, the area having been transformed from whorehouse to a now decently functioning inn. At the mentioning of his former employer’s demise, Charon released a low huff. It sounded annoyed, but then again everything he did appeared that way. In actuality, there was a relief that washed over him. If things hadn’t taken a strange turn, then by now he’d be staring at some recently turned ghouls drown themselves into an alcoholic stupor.

“Talking about ghouls, your boy’s got some mad muscles,” Nova complemented, attempting to keep it between his employer and herself with a hush whisper. Charon heard it clear as day, and he instantly found himself glaring. Unfortunately for him, Nova was aware that she was safe from his clutches. After all, she was a good friend of the Lone Wanderer.

“He doesn’t like being talked about,” Vee pressed, but Nova only quipped with that sultry naughtiness.

“Oh fine… I don’t judge though.”

“I-It’s not like that…!”

Red flushed Vee’s cheeks. It was a curious sight for Charon to see his employer become flustered. Usually she was rather cool and collected. Nothing got under her skin, from dirty mouthed raiders to molerat guts caking under her fingernails. She’d even told to him a time where she had to dissect a raider for swallowing her housekey—he would have asked why the hell that occurred in the first place if she hadn’t warned him of how long winded the story was going to be. Back to the matters at hand though, he wasn’t entirely sure why she seemed so bothered. From behind they heard the saloon doors opened, and Gob glanced from the right of the small group to see a familiar face.

“Looks like someone’s back in town,” he remarked, drawing Vee to peak behind her shoulder.

Jericho had entered, speaking heavily to Lucy West who had been seated quietly in the corner of the room. Vee could already hear his infamous words, the very same he always told her.

_“Well if it ain’t the little dog princess from Arefu, arf arf arf!”_

_“Shame to see you back in one piece, Jericho.”_

“Awe shit,” Vee hissed, feeling the tingling sensation of carbon bubbling down her throat. That earned her a laugh from the woman clinging to her shoulders.

“Still embarrassed about that one time huh?” Gob questioned.

Vee only winced, “It was one time. One. Time. I didn’t know any better. 300 caps wasted.”

Charon overheard, watching the former raider strolling on over from his peripheral. The tips of his fingers itched to grab his shotgun, but he recalled Vee’s words perfectly. _The people here are harmless. Please don’t start a fight, okay?_ A request counted as an order, he supposed. Or rather he had no choice but to change the rules a notch given his new employer was a difficult humanitarian. The rugged man slammed his hand firmly against the countertop, loud enough to make a scene if people weren’t so used to him. Gob just kept doing his thing, not seeing the need to intervene as Nova’s grip around the Lone Wanderer’s neck grew tighter. The man always did make her uncomfortable, especially now that he so openly complained about the lack of a brothel since Moriarty’s untimely demise.

“Well if it ain’t the cleanest little do-gooder in Megaton,” he sneered, staring down at Vee as she sat on the weathered barstool. Expression blank, she observed her dwindling drink as it sloshed in its glass container.

“Afternoon, Jericho,” Vee said, oddly indifferent to the man that she clearly didn’t like.

“Heard the news. Look at you gettin’ your hands dirty in mutant blood.” Those wild eyes of him took a gander at Charon. “Who’s the ugly?” The ghoul made no response. Not even a twitch of his lips.

Huh, that interested Jericho. The man was always hungry for a challenge, and Vee already knew what was going to happen. “Leave him alone, he’s my companion,” Vee warned.

Jericho’s eyes pinched in disbelief, “This rotten mug? Oh, talk about low standards. Told ya, you should have brought me along instead.”

“Nobody would bring a dirty ex-raider around even if their lives depended on it,” said Billy Creel, who had been sipping on his own bottle of Nuka Cola while speaking with Walter about the older gent’s most recent repair escapade. With teeth bore, Jericho gnashed the meanest sounding words at him.

“Shut yer mouth you damn sissy, nobody asked you. Anyways, where was I… oh yeah, so I’ve been wondering. Have you been feeling a lil’ lonely out there?” he asked rather suggestively.

Nova was already rolling her eyes, “Here we go again.”

“Lonely?” Vee asked, her ill experience still shining through her dirtied getup. Despite all she’d been through, there’s still some things people do or say that just utterly confuse her. Charon’s eyes noticeably darken, and with Jericho’s waggling brows and dirty grin, it didn’t take Vee much contemplating to put two and two together. She frowned with disgust.

“Awe c’mon, 101! I ain’t so bad, you’d see if you gave me a chance,” Jericho insisted, reaching over to place a hand upon Vee’s shoulder when suddenly Charon grabbed him. The grip around Jericho’s wrist was tight, and as the man jerked in an attempt to free himself, he felt the painful squeeze of his bones pressing together until a fine pointed _pop_ echoed into his ears. Undoubtedly he was uncomfortable, but raiders didn’t yield easily.

“Nobody touches the mistress.”

Nearly choking on his drink, Vee sat straight up to find those within hearing range staring at Charon. _What did he just call me?_ Even Jericho himself was speechless, his eyes peeled back in surprise for the word that thoughtlessly left Charon. Thinking the ghoul had let something slip, she didn’t expect to see his stone-cold face staring deathly to the man who was only an inch from touching her, about ready to break his wrist along with everything else on him. _Charon’s protecting me,_ Vee thought.

The tension fell when Jericho started to laugh. “Hah! The hell did he call you? Damn, you have some crazy kinks sugar. Dominatrix, **and** you like them falling apart?” More sickening laugher. Honestly, the man almost choked on his own tongue. Gritting her teeth, Vee casted Charon a look he’d never seen her sport in the three weeks he’d spent with her. Instantly he released Jericho from his iron grasp, watching as the former raider wrung out his wrist. The moment his face pulled into discomfort, Charon felt a sense of satisfaction welling inside of him.

“Strong bastard too. You like choking too, don’t cha? I can do that too ya know.”

A pleasant smile formed over Vee’s lips. With a single finger she tempted him over, and Jericho mindlessly followed the gesture with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Fingers wrapped around his collar, pulling him down until the crowns of their heads bashed together. The man saw stars, stumbling back and nearly toppling over. Grabbing against the bar for anchorage, he yelped when something hard and solid struck his chin. Jericho grasped where his teeth had devilled against a now swelling lip, looking up with awestruck eyes to see a 10 mm pistol pointing straight at his face. The room fell quiet, Vee’s dominant hand holding out the heavily augmented gun with deadly accuracy. There was no quiver in her wrist.

And then she smiled.

“… I’m not interested.” Lowering the gun, she heard the room fill once again with Jericho’s booming laughter. Gob had not once stopped cleaning the cups, though when Vee placed a handful of caps on the counter, he dropped what he was doing to serve a shot of whiskey to the boisterous bastard next to her.

“Fuck, made me bleed and buying me a drink?” Jericho nearly insulted, smirking nonetheless as he downed the burning liquid in one gulp. Vee leaned back against Nova who had snatched the Lone Wanderer’s Nuka Cola for herself. Closing her fingers over her now empty palm, she sighed with what Charon couldn’t help but sense as relief.

“Just wanted to show you that I’m not a money-giving push over anymore, Jericho.”

“You been hanging around raiders? You’re fucking acting like one.”

“ _Pssh_ , me?” Vee pulled a sleeve up to reveal her otherwise spotless arm. “Do I look like a jet addict to you?”

Meanwhile, Charon had been staring at Vee with an incredulous look. That violent performance, and all in one fluid motion. Premediated, perfected even. He’d heard her stories of fights, but of all his time with her she kept their profile low and the battles minimal. Charon always figured that a person itching to avoid fights was a person who couldn’t fight at all. Far from foolhardy, what he first observed as nothing more than a pacifist was actually also a thorough, calculated individual who could do quite the damage in a short amount of time. Jericho was still bleeding, and while he spent wasted time recovering, she could have shot him in the face and left him for dead in this washed up bar.

_Fact: Always assume that an enemy is more than capable._

Didn’t that count non hostiles, too? Never would Charon make such a petty mistake, but for whatever reason he had been dead set on this employer being nothing but a weak little pushover. A classic trophy wife thrown out into a desert. As Jericho swayed off somewhere to bug another poor soul, and as Nova and Vee began discussing her most recent journeys—and how apparently Dogmeat pissed on her sofa—Charon noticed for a fraction of a second Vee touching the top of her head tenderly.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who thinks it,” Nova cackled, earning a growl from Vee.

“I told you it’s not like that!”

Charon still didn’t understand what was bothering her so much.

***

It was dark.

Nighttime often led to robberies, assaults, ambushes, assassination attempts…

“Charon?”

He was listening, but his eyes were everywhere but his employer. Still, he was listening. At first, she’d thought him to be ignoring her, but she had learned by now that he was _always_ listening.

“Back at the bar…”

“I will refrain from grabbing,” he concluded.

Vee stuttered, “N-No that was fine. I hate when Jericho touches me. It’s what you _called_ me.”

“Mistress,” he repeated. The term alone made her back shiver.

“Why do you call me that?”

“You are my female employer, and therefore my mistress.”

And that was that. Vee swallowed her words, trying to think up a better way of approaching this. Too stubborn to order him around, she always tried to find a way to encourage Charon in changing his own mind. Making his own decisions. Until recently, however, she considered that maybe her little act of manipulation wasn’t the best approach in helping him find his individuality.

For starters, _manipulating_ was _bad_.

Opening the door, her legs were bombarded by the large hound inside. Dogmeat panted a storm, snipping at Charon’s legs but doing nothing in tripping him. The ghoul stalked inside before taking his seat on the couch—it took her _ages_ convincing him that he could sit down in the first place. Dogmeat followed suit, leaping up and settling down beside him. Vee stared at the two companions, stark different from one another but equally stubborn in their own rights.

She sighed heavily, “How about something else? Like maybe my name?”

“I am required to uphold a certain degree of profession, preserving and acknowledging the hierarchy.”

“There’s no hierar… okay, let me think for a second.” With that she plopped on the couch beside him, forcing his form to turn rigid with discomfort. Charon stared at the way their legs pressed against one another, his expression sour.

Why was she so close?

All the while she was speaking with herself. Charon had heard Vee mention once that she’d go in her _head_ sometimes to think things through. As if it were some place she could get up and stroll on over to. Never was he a man for analogies, so the meaning went way over his head, but he was most certain that she was doing that again. Right now. Next to him, and close as those century old sardines that Ahzrukhal used to fancy so damn much.

 _“Mistress… mistress… might be taken the wrong way,”_ she thought outwardly.

“Madam,” he spoke, wanting nothing more than for her to leave him be. The side of his body was turning warm and sweaty from her heat, and he didn’t know what to think of it.

“No no, not that either.”

“I don’t understand the issue, mistress.”

With a finger snap she leapt up and off the couch, pointing at him with wide eyes. “That! You see? You’re calling me it again!”

“Because it’s what you are.”

“No, Charon, I am **not** your mistress,” she seemed exasperated.

“But the contract-”

“Damn the contract! Call me by my name, please? At least try to say it? Vee, or Vera?”

Fixing his eyes on her desperate expression, Charon felt as if a rock were forming in his throat. Saying her name wasn’t part of the protocol. Wasn’t in his training. Saying names were almost forbidden in his mind. Yeah, he could say it when in conversation with other people, but to her face? Nope, he wasn’t doing it. Feeling the pressure well up in his mouth, he opened his torn lips and blurted out, “ _Boss_.”

An inward breath slipped through her lips, sharp and almost painful. As much as she wanted to slap it into him, she knew it wouldn’t work. Ordering him around was out of the question too. At times, Vee wondered if this man was trying to pressure her into fitting the profile of a _contract owner_. She’d rather lose her leg than do that, no matter how much easier everything would all be. Brushing back her dark locks, Vee stared at the ghoul with chocolate eyes before huffing. Obviously, saying anything less than that would make him uncomfortable.

“… fine. I’ll accept boss,” she muttered bitterly before adding in, _“but I don’t like it.”_

Was this not a child standing before him? It sure acted like one, and he really wanted to sock her outside the head like one too. A slap from him would probably break her delicate little neck. Coy in mind and tough as nails, she had this lightheartedness that wasn’t really seen often out there. It was a stark contrast, especially when taking to account her body. Slender, curvy, well fed and toned: the body of a full fledge woman. The vault suit she sported was fitting as well, so it didn’t leave him having to depend on imagination all too much. It was no wonder as to why Jericho pursued her. Why raiders cat called her with profanities. Why even Gob and Billy Creel gave here those googly eyes whenever she walked into the bar.

Charon blinked and questioned why he was thinking so much about this and instead observed the way she rubbed at her temple.

“Why did you do that.”

For the first time in three weeks, Charon initiated the conversation all on his own. It took Vee by surprise, her warm eyes brimming with surprise at the way he was staring attentively at her, awaiting patiently for her answer with that dull expression plastered over his face. He was so tall, she didn’t really have to look too far down to meet his eyes even while he sat. Dogmeat was resting its head on his lap, fast asleep or perhaps too lazy to keep its eyes open. Charon seemed indifferent to it and to her. Still, this was something that got her heart racing. Such a crowning achievement has been made, and she didn’t even know how it came to be.

“Do… do what?” she asked, tilting her head slightly in confusion. The little act was charming, but Charon didn’t really have that word in his vocabulary, so he only stared at the act with a blank state of mind.

“To the bastard at the bar. You could have knocked yourself out,” he stated, and there was a harshness to his tone. Passively he was insulting her, though the woman remembered one of the top rules of the wastes. Not to take things too personally.

Nevertheless, Vee smiled down at him, utterly impressed by his observation skills. “I needed to make a point.”

“What point?” he grumbled.

“That I’m not a scared woman leaving the vault that I was two months ago. That I’m willing to take risks,” she explained. It was then that Charon narrowed his gaze, the edge of his lips twitching as he deciphered her words. Overall, something wasn’t settling well for him. “What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing boss.”

“Nonsense. Something is on your mind, so let it out and tell me if you can,” she asked. She never intended it on being a question of courage, but the ghoul took it like a challenge. Locking his darkened gaze with hers, he straightened his form—if that was even possible—and spoke as clear as a ghoul could.

“You’re confusing.”

Vee rose a brow, “How so?”

The ghoul gulped, finding his voice growing tired from all the talking he’d done in the last three minutes. “You’re always tryin’ to find the safe route, and yet you’re willing to headbutt a raider and put a gun to his face with innocents around.”

“ _Ex_ -raider,” Vee corrected.

Eliciting a choked growl, Charon adjusted his attention and instead stared at the vault numbers painted in yellow on her jumper’s collar. The once pristine blue was now patched and soiled in the elements, in desperate need of a second washing after her failed attempts yesterday. With a small smile, Vee sat down on the small table before Charon and leaned forward, the tips of her fingers almost touching his armored knees. The bodyguard turned stiff at her once again close proximity.

“I knew he wasn’t going to kill me if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Charon seemed tense, so Vee sighed before motioning with her hand. “Go ahead, you can be honest with me.”

“… bullshit,” he responded curtly after some seconds of contemplating. “It’s obvious you took a chance… boss,” he made sure to add in. Vee chuckled, standing up to disappear into the kitchen. From there, she spoke.

“Before I met you, I spent a lot of my time scavenging around Springvale,” she began, the sounds of her rummaging through food bins earning the interest of the once sleeping dog. “Simms warned me to keep away from the school. Said raiders would hang out there. I didn’t know what a raider was yet, but I was too embarrassed to ask. That’s when I met Jericho. He told me stories of his past—all the terrible things he’d done—not long after, he started making attempts at me, so I paid him off thinking he’d leave me be… anyways, I started getting curious about them, and word on the street said the Caravans coming by had been picked clean of the good stuff. I sent camp in the ruins one night and saw a light shining from the school. Turns out the place really was crawling with raiders.”

When she returned, it was with a mutfruit in hand. Vee took a bite, enjoying the crispy outside and soft, ripe interior. Charon watched as a bead of juice began rolling down her finger. “I wasn’t prepared for a fight like that, so I settled for watching them. For three whole days I observed their habits, relationships, gear… even learned some of their names. Something they did most often was beat the daylights out of one another and then just completely laugh it out. It was barbaric, but then I realized it was a culture. The _raiders’_ culture.” Another bite. Charon glanced up at her perplexed.

“What are you getting at boss?” he questioned impatiently like she was a madman.

Vee shrugged, “You called Jericho a raider. You weren’t wrong. He still is at heart. I only acted like a raider amongst their kin.”

“You got lucky,” he stated dryly.

With a smile she tossed the fruit to him, which Charon caught effortlessly. “Some would say I’m lucky, others would say that I learned how to speak his language. I’d pin it as both. Either way it worked at the bar, which means it always should.”

“Why buy him a drink then?” Charon’s voice was seriously starting to wear out.

Licking her fingers, she patted them together with a pleasant sigh. “Alcohol numbs the pain. It’s common decency. Besides, booze is the universal language. Wouldn’t you agree?” Giving Dogmeat a ruffle behind the ear, Vee stalked around the couch before heading upstairs.

They had passed by Springvale Elementary on their way there. Raiders never let people pass by like that, especially a young woman and a ghoul right outside their doorsteps.

“Boss.”

Footsteps coming to a halt, he could tell his employer was looking at him.

“Yes Charon?”

“What happened to those raiders.” Never did his questions sound like actual questions. More like orders. Regardless, he awaited an answer, but was disturbingly left in the dark when she didn’t give him it.

“… I like it when you’re open Charon. It’s refreshing.” Metal mixed with wooden floorboards groaned. Approximately seventeen steps later and she called out, “Goodnight!” Then the door shut. Still grasping the ripened fruit in his hands, Charon stared at it dumbfounded. She’d taken a single bite before giving it to him to dispose of.

No, that’s not correct.

She was _sharing_ it with him.

Until that it the dog’s tongue lapped against it. Either way, Charon wasn’t hungry. With a scowl he tossed it across the living room, watching as Dogmeat scurried after it like its life depended on it. The fruit left a sticky sap on his fingers, and the ghoul stared at it with a heated intensity.

Three days.

She observed raiders for three days.

She acted like one to Jericho, and it gave him a sense of familiarity. Enough so that he didn’t shove a fist into her face. And it was all on a whim.

A simple notion.

Equal parts bold and clever. The ghoul wasn’t sure if that was worth complementing, though. In the end of the day, she’d be tossing and turning with a searing headache all just to prove some point. Who cared what the raider thought of her? He would stop thinking when he was dead. _I don’t want to kill people unless I have to._ Those words had left her mouth the day they entered the science museum in search of a satellite replacement. Right before she stared Charon in the eyes and told him, _you can leave me Charon. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me._ In a multistory building filled with green masses of violence and muscles, she was willing to go in alone.

Definitely not a coward, that’s for sure. And the way she held her poise with a gun proved she could carry out a good fight. Honestly, the more Charon contemplated her, the more confused he became. Never did he really try understanding somebody so much in his entire life, either. He only just lived, served, and did as he was told.

_Springvale. Did she kill them all?_

A building like that could house well over forty, though they rarely ever did run a pack that large. The safe number was always in the twenties, and even then it would have been too much for her to handle. Assuming she did though, why not tell him? Why not show off that she was as tough as they get? That she was capable of taking them all down? Charon suspected that maybe she was lying, or maybe she was ashamed that she couldn’t handle it.

 _Fact: Always assume that a_ person _is more than capable._

Odd, he subconsciously made an adjustment.

Finding his mind to be as worn as his vocal cords, Charon closed his eyes as the electricity began to flicker. No sleep—people could break in while they’re asleep. He’d settle for letting his thoughts go blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's everybody's favorite fallout game overall? 
> 
> They all obviously have their "ups", but 3 was my first ever and I have to give it to it. New Vegas is a tie though since that game is just the pinnacle of what a fallout game should be, only missing out on the settlement building (and the slightly more intense fallout 4 hardcore mode).


	4. Addled About Vera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon's been confused lately. All the while, Vee has them doing errands for Moira, whom he sort of hates.

Never in his life had he been so surrounded by mines.

He supposed that was why they called it Minefield.

Vee was none the wiser, having deviled herself into once again another mindless act of good Samaritan. The world was _give_ and _take_ , she claimed, and that helping others would in turn help them. Yet the more Charon assessed it, the more it looked like Vee was slaving herself in return for petty rewards. Sometimes she’d make it big. Do a quest out in the middle of nowhere, help some random bastard, and receive their secret stash because they were oh so grateful that a savior came around. Most of the time, however, Charon felt that they were in the back end of a stick.

Like in Minefield.

Any mine could have done it, but no—Vee wanted to be a good sport and weave her way into the heart of the infested town. To the damn playground for an active landmine that looked rusted and rotten like any of the other hundred lying about before it. Charon’s muscled tensed with agitation. Two months of this, and of course he’d start to get tired of it. _“You’re an idiot,”_ he said at one point, much to her surprise. And what did it earn him?

That stupid smile.

At least it was stupid at first.

That moment he was hunched behind the remains of a car, on the gifted end of both Vee’s sheepish smile and the sniper rounds coming from some old coot screaming nonsense atop one of the decimated buildings. Charon felt like a ghost of a hand had reached through his ribcage and wrung out his heart as her lips pulled at the corners and he caught sight of the whitest teeth he’d ever seen. The ghoul blamed it on the loud pang of bullets only inches from piercing the steel body of enamel-painted rust. Blamed it on the beeping of a mine nearby when a stray round buried into the dirt, turning disturbed by the dust settling on it. Blamed it on the enormous blast that would have swallowed him whole if it weren’t for his employer’s quick hands, latching around the old leather of his bandolier and pulling with all her might. Blamed it on the way he instinctively held onto her as they tumbled, their bodies bursting through one of the boarded-up doors and into a temporary safety. As they took the time to catch their breaths he noticed it was the closest they’ve ever been. With Vee’s body lying upon his, her head against his chest until finally she rose herself too look down at him with ash-stained skin and a cut on her lip. Worry knitted her brows together, but there was instant relief in seeing that he was overall okay.

Why should she have been relieved for _him_?

_“Heh, yeah I can be an idiot, but you’re not. So we even each other out, yeah?”_ she said breathlessly, still shocked by their near-death experience. Outside, a scream could be heard, and the gunfire came to a halt. No doubt it was Dogmeat, finally having ascended the rickety staircase up to the assailant, probably pushing him off the edge of his post. Vee smiled brightly down at her ghoulish counterpart. Charon’s heart squeezed again.

He blamed it on her arm pressing against his diaphragm.

And on their way back to Megaton, he noticed her limping. Not a thought crossed his mind once about carrying her until she cracked a joke.

_“You’re slow,”_ he had stated. _“It’ll take us another day to get home if you don’t speed it up.”_

Vee had made a groan, her right leg dragging behind her and bounded with gauze. _“I’m trying to hurry up! If I had a stimpak then it’d be more bearable. You could always carry me you know.”_ Charon had—for whatever reason—stiffened up at the suggestion. Though, he wasn’t far from following out the order if she so pleased, but the moment he turned to face her with that dull expression of his, the woman only chuckled shakenly before raising her arms. _“I’m just kidding! I wouldn’t want you to wear your arms out! I’m pretty heavy.”_

Truth be told, it wouldn’t. He’d be able to carry her for a few hours before needing to get some rest. Finally, they were back at Megaton, and the first order of business was to visit a doctor. That wasn’t proving to be easy. Vee insisted that she knew how to take care of herself, and Charon was obviously skeptical. This was the most action they’d seen in a while, and the first time someone had gotten hurt. In their home, Dogmeat came charging and dived into the pillow dedicated to it. Its teeth tugged at the edges, much to the Handy unit’s discontent, and as the robot attempted to hush the canine’s pent up energy, Vee had instantly collapsed upon the couch with a pained groan.

Which left Charon standing in the middle of the small living room, the medical box in hand as he watched Vee prodding carefully at the swelling flesh of her hip. He’d never seen her skin beneath the suit. Beneath, she sported a tank top that was well soiled with old sweat. Dirt which permeated the fabric of blue and yellow blotched her skin. The sleeves of the dweller uniform were tied tightly around her hips, where a nasty bruise was spreading beneath her smooth skin.

“Oh my, what has happened Madam Vera?” uttered the Mr. Handy worriedly, clambering on over with the _purt purt purt_ of its motors. The bottom half radiated with a heat as air constantly flowed out of him, suspending him into the air. He fluttered about ungracefully, yet not once bumping into anything. Mindful of Charon, he came a stop beside him, the heat of the robot’s exhaust piling up to the ghoul’s padded knees.

“It’s fine, Mr. Handy, it’s just some bruising. Though… something tells me I might have cracked a bone or two…”

The robot feigned horror, and it was oddly convincing. “Madam, you must seek medical help at once!”

“I agree with the bucket of bolts,” Charon harshly remarked, because how often would he agree with a Mr. Handy unit? The woman delivered to them a heated glare, her mouth drawn down and teeth gritting as she squeezed a particularly tender spot. With a roll of his eyes, Charon remained still as the sifted through the medical box with his large hands. Of course, she was too stupid to listen to them.

“Well, if you refuse to see Doctor Church then at the very least use this,” the Handy unit opened a small compartment on its side where a stimpak was deposited. “I’m sure I can expunge the protocol for this rarity of an instance! At least… I hope it will remain _rare_.”

Well, at least the robot was good at rubbing in the salt. The ghoul’s expression didn’t change, ever hardened yet secretly amused at the way his employer’s shoulders dropped. Nonetheless, she took the stimpak and injected the junction between her leg and hip. The injection made a whirling noise, and almost instantly she felt the pain gradually disappearing. With a deep sigh, Vee leaned her head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling with tear-glazed eyes.

“ _Ohhhh_ … _oh_ … thank goodness,” she moaned bitterly.

A sniffle, a ghastly breath. Rubbing away the wetness around her eyelids, she jerked her head to the side and stared out between the cracks of the door. “Can I see it?” she droned, watching as Charon beelined for the knapsack by the entrance and fishing out the bomb. Handing it to her, she stared at the Frisbee-sized weapon and grimaced. “Nasty little bugger.”

“Boss.”

“Yes Charon?”

“Why the hell are you helping that crazy woman?”

“Moira?” she asked. Charon only stared, unblinkingly, as a cat does to empty space. Still in some agonizing pain, Vee placed the bomb in her companion’s hands with a writhing expression. “It’s for a good cause Charon. Besides, it should be in our best interests to make friends.”

There she goes again with the whole give and take bullshit. As much as he wanted to say something foul about how stupid her reasonings were, the ghoul bit his tongue and only stared sourly to the door leading to his mop closet-turned bedroom. Vee frowned.

“Don’t be like that Charon.”

“Don’t see a point in making _friends_ ,” he announced, and bitterly at that.

A frown formed over Vee’s lips, “Aren’t I your friend?” The brainwashed ghoul froze over, not once expecting to hear such words from his employer. His grip on the box tightened, his throat closing up, and he wasn’t sure on the right thing to say next. Never been trained for it before. As a child, he never even thought of the word friend, and it wasn’t in his dictionary until an owner from many years ago mentioned it to him once. _Ghoulification is such a fascinating thing. Did the same happen to your friends?_ The guy wasn’t nice about it, though, so the younger Charon associated it as a bad thing for a long while. Remembering where he was, Charon looked down at Vee’s sullen form. She seemed rather hurt by this, and he wasn’t even sure what for. Unable to conjure up words, he placed the medical box down and stalked his way out of sight. But then he paused at the foot of the stairs, and Vee didn’t even bother looking at him to know what the trouble was.

“Charon, you don’t have to ask every time you need to take a piss,” she groaned, exasperated by this man’s constant dependence for instruction. It was then he finally ascended the stairs and escaped to the small confinement of the lavatory.

The next day Vee was feeling up for being on her feet more. They made way for the Crater Side Supply, where Moira lit up at the sight of her newfound friend. _More like lab rat,_ Charon thought, and as if on cue, there came the shop owner’s curious eyes. “Well? How was it out there in Minefield? Oh, I’ve read so many books all about ancient warfare, and not one said anything about bombs. Back then it was all knives and swords. Imagine having to go out there with little to no experience about them? Well, that’s why I’ve got you two to help!”

Honestly, the way Moira spoke was like constant verbal insults, hidden away beneath the tooth-rotting kindness that practically poured out of each orifice on her body. Clearly unamused, Charon refused to utter a single word to the awkwardly patient woman that stared expectantly at him without even so much as noticing the aggravation emanating from the much taller ghoul. Vee sputtered out some words here and there, catching Moira’s attention and successfully drawing her away from Charon altogether. The Lone Wanderer gazed up at him with one of her two signature smiles—the embarrassed one—and patted his chest.

“You can just stay here, I won’t be long, okay?” she offered, because it was painstakingly obvious how much he detested that woman who was searching through some messy note piles across the room of clutter. Charon growled, giving a curt, stiff nod. With Vee walking away, the ghoul was left in his own devices. Usually, he never thought, and only stared. Let the time pass and slip by, though he was always so painfully aware of how many seconds passed. Underworld had no windows, so it was the only way of knowing what time of day it was outside the mold-clung walls. Far different from those around him now, all metal with shelves of old weaponry and knickknacks. Random rocks and nuts and bolts. Tools for engineering and bits and pieces from ancient machinery and broken-down robots.

Two.

She had two signature smiles.

Why the hell did Charon think of that just now?

Of course he knew—he saw her face every day, and Vee wasn’t the type to shy emotions away from him. No matter how intimidating he was. Still, why think of it? Why distinguish which of her two famous smiles she was sporting in that moment? Sporting _ever_? With arms crossed, he watched as Moira continued to unfold some thoughts perhaps kept in the deepest crevices of her mind, undoubtedly dastardly at that with how wide Vee’s eyes reeled open. The mine—which was in Moira’s hands for a total of two minutes—was left on the table beside them, perhaps to rot forgotten. She’d said something about _tinkering with it later tonight._ Vee had responded, _please don’t blow up the town, Moira._

And all for some survival guide that no one in their right mind would read.

It was obvious mines were dangerous, and it wasn’t everyone’s forte to disarm them. Vee was one of the few readers he had ever met. The woman was smart enough to get something out of a book and transform it. Use those words and make it actually helpful. Though he hadn’t met her when it happened, he overheard how Vee disarmed the nuclear bomb in the center of Megaton after spending countless hours researching explosives.

Researching.

From fucking books.

Sure, she was weak, but her _brains_ did a whole lot of heavy lifting.

Charon’s face grimaced. He was thinking a whole lot about her again. He’d never really done that before. Just worked the day away and sat in silence throughout the night until the morning came, delivering yet another day of responsibilities. One day he’d die, and maybe be freed from it all, but freedom was nothing more than a word. He wasn’t even sure what it meant.

Someone was standing beside him. Quiet as a mouse, but he heard them the moment they arrived. It was the former prostitute—Nova—sporting a cigarette between her lips. There was something about her he hated a lot. The constant prying and teasing nature. Plus, she was too damn handsy with Vee, and it made him constantly on edge when she was around. Chances were, she was trying to search for an opportunity to kill the Lone Wanderer.

How Vee remained alive before she met him was beyond him.

“How’s it going, big guy?” she asked with her back leaning against the counter. Damn did he hate that nickname of his. _Talk to Vera,_ he almost said, but Vee had told him to quit with that after the first time. That he was a human who had a right to speak, or to be spoken to. And that if he didn’t want it, to just _kindly_ say he wasn’t in the mood. The two women ahead didn’t take notice to the new arrival, so they just kept on chattering up a storm. Or rather, Moira continued talking Vee’s ears off. Smoke waterfalled from Nova’s mouth, her face sporting a tiny little beauty mark that would captivate many men who crossed the Saloon’s heavy iron clad doors. He wasn’t sure what was so attractive about moles. They were imperfections, weren’t they? Hanging on the wall was a piece of plexiglass that barely showed Charon a muggy reflection of himself.

Who was he to say a smoothskin had imperfections, anyway?

Just thinking the facts, though. A lot about the world he didn’t comprehend. Couldn’t understand. Too many concepts, cultures, accents, customs… the list went on, and the more he contemplated it, the more he realized how unawares he was. Not that it bothered him. In what Charon did know, he knew very well. Protecting and serving were his bread and butter. The very essence of what he was. Ever since Vee took it upon herself to “save” him from the grips of a dirty rotten scoundrel, she’d only gotten her hip nearly displaced. The gaunt to her walk was minimal after the heavy dose of stimpak, and with a simple radaway her radiation was brought back down to a minimal. Vomiting through her nose was the most pain she probably had to endure, which meant Charon was doing his job quite well indeed.

“What’s it like?”

The muscles of his face went to raise a brow, except there weren’t any to quirk. Still, Charon looked down at the rather short woman with a puzzled expression. She’d been quite all this time, staring between him and the two yappers across the room.

“What?” his weathered voice grumbled.

Nova smirked, “You know, traveling with her? I’ve always wondered.”

Far from interested in talking, Charon knew she was the type of woman to wait as long as she had until he finally croaked. And although it was unquestionable on the fact that he was far more patient than she, Charon couldn’t find it in himself to handle her blazing eyes tearing him apart. To be stared at expectantly was annoying and far worse than humoring her until she felt satisfied enough to go on her merry little way.

“Infuriating,” he grumbled affront.

“Oh?” chimed Nova, swallowing a giggle that was wiggling its way up her tiny little neck. “That’s interesting. At least it isn’t boring.”

Admittedly, he had to agree to that. Though it wasn’t interesting in every given moment, there was always a crescendo to their otherwise stagnant travels. A climax that would burst in either gunfire or an entire ghost town littered with bombs. Charon could hear his own heart in his ears as he saw those moments closing in, and felt his legs tempted to drag behind him as they left the sundered lands on route to home.

“Was hoping for a little more detail…” Nova trailed off, feigning disappointment. Charon’s teeth gritted with annoyance.

“The boss and I aren’t sexually invested,” Charon’s harsh words cut through the air. Surprisingly, her surprised look turned into a satisfactory chuckle. Damn, he couldn’t stand this strange woman. _Who in their right mind would have a sex with a ghoul,_ he thought, and as if Nova could hear his thoughts she gave him a sideways smirk.

“Bet you it’s crossed one of your minds at least one or twice.”

Lips pulling to a scowl, Charon rolled his eyes at the sound of her incessant laughter and fixed his eyes to his employer. Vee had reached forward, taking a piece of what appeared to be a hand-drawn map from Moira and observed it with pinched eyes. Petite, feminine, harmless looking Vee. Not even a genius could surmise what she was capable of just by looking. And yet Charon’s uncharacteristically wandering mind always brought him back to the one thing he didn’t know the answers for.

_Springvale_.

No nerve in him would allow him to so much as inquire what had happened on her first month out of the vault. On the days when she camped outside of Springvale and observed the raiders from a concerningly close distance. The woman kept her secrets, and Charon was never one to pry. Something about this secret entailed so much, though, and there was a temptation in him that had never plagued him so greatly.

“Looks like something’s on your mind big guy. You gonna let it out?” Nova asked, noticing the way the ghoul’s stare darkened. Charon didn’t show any signs of acknowledging her, but he did hear. And he had difficulty ignoring her.

Admittedly, there was a terrible itch in his finite curiosity that he wanted so desperately to scratch. How could someone so meager—so seemingly _normal_ —be the formidable, legendary Lone Wanderer? Gulping uncomfortably, Charon’s naturally fearsome gaze shifted about as he struggling to formulate the right words to say.

“Springvale Elementary.”

The words came out jagged and hard, squeezed through his tightening throat that rip and tore every time he uttered a vowel. Nova rose a brow, visibly confused by the sudden location that the menacing ghoul anxiously blurted out. With her cigarette between her lips, she took a single puff before letting the ash fall from the end.

“The school?” she confirmed, and Charon’s eyes shifted to stare down at her much smaller form.

Charon’s lips pressed together, “Something’s not adding up.”

Deciphering his words took some time for Nova. “You wanna know what happened at the school?” Nova asked, watching as the menacing ghoul’s posture turned rigid. Even though he’d been around this woman—this place—plenty of times, he still couldn’t get over how unfamiliar it all felt. Much to his relief, she continued without him having to put in any more effort. “Oh yeah, you two just got back from a trip. Guessing you’re wondering why such a big place is dead silent.” Earning the ghoul’s curt nod, Nova continued. Smoke blew from her nostrils, filling the air with a stinging stench of nicotine.

“It’s been cleared. Not a raider left.”

“How.”

She quirked a brow, mouth gnawing up and down at the end of her cigarette. Her baffled look made his stomach clench. “How else, sugar? The Lone Wanderer.”

Charon tried to not look so surprised, but he sure did feel it in his gut. “The boss?”

Nova nodded, flashing a toothy grin. “Singlehandedly. Pretty sexy, huh?”

“Why…” Charon paused. This much talking was like lifting weights, and the former slave looked to be enjoying watching him go out of his comfort zone. “… why dodge the subject then?”

He wasn’t expecting the redhead to frown, her eyes casting a careful glance to the woman who’s time was being eaten up by the rather enthusiastic looking Moira, a manuscript to her infamous survival guide in hand. “Don’t know. I reckon she’s ashamed.” Eyes narrowed; Charon wasn’t following. Adjusting her stature, Nova pursed her lips and got a little too close for Charon’s comfort. Instinctually, he wanted to grab his gun, but the little voice of Vee’s past requests ushered him not to.

“What I mean is, she doesn’t like killing people.”

“They’re raiders,” he said a little harshly, finding the boss’s sympathy to be extremely distasteful.

“She’s a goody. And she’s honest. And she’s got a **real** heart. There ain’t more to it than that, big guy. Hard to understand, but she is from a _vault_. My money’s on the fact that she hasn’t seen a dead body until she made one herself.”

A real heart? What did that even mean? Glazing his pale, milky gaze over to her, Charon watched as Vee spoke with the energetic shop owner. She barely kept up with the lists of requests and the sheer pace of speaking. There was nothing special being displayed, and it wasn’t like he could see her viscera to get a better understanding of what the woman meant.

“Sorry about teasing you. Vera practically begs that I leave you be. Guess I haven’t been very fair. After what I’ve been forced to do, sex isn’t really a shy topic for me anymore,” she explained, and there was a hint of shame to her tone. Not a care in the world was showing on Charon’s critical gaze. That didn’t seem to discourage her from keeping on, much to his disappointment.

“Do you feel anything different when you look at her?” she dared ask. The question successfully reclaimed his attention, and Charon looked down at the ever-curious Nova with a glare far too intense than he originally intended. Why the hell did she mean by that? Nova took the short time to pry a little more. “Do you feel like… you know… she’s something else?” she clarified. Charon didn’t want to respond, but these encrypted questions were driving him up a wall. Nova teetered her head to the side, puckering out a lip in thought as she, herself, struggled to come up with a direct yet discreet way of saying it.

Nova hummed in thought, “Like she’s… _special_?”

Charon thought. He thought, and thought, and _thought_ … and whilst he thought he found himself looking at her again. Impulsively, he stared at the way her lips smirked. Her eyes winced. Her chest bouncing as she chuckled, obviously strained by the conversation but amused, nonetheless. Charon stared at her, and he didn’t know what to find. Or more so, what he was _finding_.

“No.”

Whatever bit of hope clouding Nova’s eyes died immediately. Soon, Vee had turned her attention to notice that her companion was no longer alone. Giving Moira a short goodbye, the Lone Wanderer traversed over the uneven floorboards with a subtle limp to her walk. There was an alarming look on her face to see Nova rather close, her lips pouting a tad bit.

“Well look at what the cat dragged in,” Nova teased, changing face the moment Vee was within speaking distance. The Lone Wanderer eyed the redhead suspiciously.

“What have you been telling him?” she asked in Charon’s defense like a mother to their child. The redhead only shrugged, halfway through her cigarette already.

“Nothing bad, just… talking.” But then she noticed the stained piece of cloth gripped between Vee’s fingers. “Talking about how much you’ve been dragging the poor guy around.”

Vee’s eyes narrowed, “Oh? He doesn’t mind, do you Charon?”

_As if I have a choice,_ the ghoul thought, unable to ignore what was so obviously a stained map to whatever hellhole Moira demands of them to venture to next. Taking their leave, Charon tailed Vee with his arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the countless whispers and curious glances making his way.

“Where are you taking us now?” Charon dared ask when they reached a walkway with few people. There was a smile on Vee’s face that made his arms tense—one of the two types. This one was friendly, optimistic, and comforting. Something about her screamed the word bouncy. Charon wasn’t as annoyed as he’d ought to be. Maybe he was growing accustomed to her.

“Have you ever heard of a Super-Duper Mart?”


	5. Starting to Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon finds himself thinking and feeling things he knows he shouldn't and it worries him.

There was a dripping sound that constantly annoyed him echoing somewhere in the vastness of the market. At one point the groaning noises of a raider’s final breath covered it up, but death finally came to them. Came to them all. A premise once flooded with the gnarly wails of vicious killers, merging stray bullets bursting with violent profanity. Mind numbingly tapping at the seams of his skull, long sealed since his birth. Now all Charon could hear was that dreadful dripping.

Vee was wiping her arms off, the little wrinkle of her nose evidence that she detested the stench of blood. Twenty or so raiders killed—it took longer than Charon had anticipated—but it was done. Which meant that they were able to scavenge the area for whatever supplies and information the crazed Moira yearned for. Shelves still held goods; an arrangement of preserved foods and drinks that probably felt like an anchor sitting in your gut. The aisle they were in had cakes, cookies, and Fancy Lady Snacks with boxes covered in gun ash and dust. Vee seemed to be compiling a mental note, all the while mindful of looking around for traps. Sometimes a raider encampment housed a scoundrel smart enough to rig something nasty. As of now, Charon saw nothing out of the ordinary piss corners and used jet inhalers.

“Are we done?” Charon asked, impatience lacing his heeding tone. According to Vee, all they had to do was give one thorough glance through the pharmacy and then they were set. His employer was compiling a list of goods present. It was a wonder how anything was left. Stereotypically, raiders wasted everything they got their hands on. If that were the case then they’d all be dead by now.

“Almost, let’s just check for some meds and we’re all set.”

The mission was seamless until they had approached the medical counter. Vee was considering whether or not they should bring something home. A box of cookies, or perhaps a bottle of brandy—Charon was surprised for his employer’s fondness of the amber liquid—but there was a strange expression on her face. As if a bug of a thought were burrowing its way inside of her brain, and the talk of groceries was an attempt to distract her from it. The distraught, though barely visible, was clear to Charon. He was reminded of his talk with Nova, where the woman had stated the shame Vee was facing after her successful clearing of the elementary school. Was it possible she was feeling that way now? The muscles lining Charon’s face flexed and pulled, transforming his expression into one of annoyance. Why care? Raiders were raiders, after all, and they killed more innocents than most. Super mutants cannibalized, slavers tore apart freedom, and raiders raped and pillaged for fun more than a need to resupply.

“Do you like those little finger cake things?” Vee inquired.

Charon’s stone-cold gaze fixed onto her curious expression. “Hate them.”

“Good,” she smiled relieved. “So do I. It’s settled then: a bottle of whiskey and some jerky for us, the rest for the world.”

Charon rolled his eyes. To think he’d be taken out for literal grocery shopping. But as they crossed the threshold into the pharmacy, Charon heard the sound of a small tick beneath Vee’s talking. With a swing of his arm he had barreled into her chest, attempting to pull her back with a lightning speed. There was a blast of a shotgun that made his hearing turn numb.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

That didn’t sound so good. As she came crashing down, she was saved the very last moment by Charon, who’s arms were hooked around her torso. Tears sprung from her eyes, her vision blurry as she was unable to comprehend what had just occurred. A tearing pain radiated from her thigh. Against the baby blue of her vault suit she saw thick blood seeping through, drenching the hardy fabric in red. A soft whimper escaped her when she felt the cold, hard tiled floor meeting with her bottom. Already knelt before her was Charon, gripping around the flesh of her thigh a little too firmly than her liking, assessing the injury with a critical gaze. The leather armor once protecting her had been removed.

Blood oozed as he turned her leg slightly to catch the light of the sun flooding through the boarded windows. Grumbling beneath his breath, he placed her leg down to search through their supply bag.

“W-What the— ** _ahh_**!” Vee’s frantic question was interrupted by the immense pain. Eyes squeezed shut, she seethed with every burning breath in an attempt to regain composure. Surely, she’d been shot before? Another sharp cry, and Charon guessed not.

“Shotgun trap,” he explained, finding a stimpak and placing it on the floor beside them. Fingers curled around the fabric surrounding her thigh. Vee heard a tear.

“What are you doing?”

“If we stimpak you, the skin’ll heal over the buckshot.”

“But don’t rip my clothes!”

Frantic, but an order, nonetheless. Charon’s large arms froze over the instant it left her tongue. Vee would have felt guilty if she wasn’t shivering beneath a sudden cold spell. If the white-hot heat of undeniable pain wasn’t pumping fresh through her constricting veins then she would have been calmer and more in control. With shaken hands she began removing her padded leather armor. One piece at a time they stacked messily upon a pile beside them. Charon said nothing, though the impatience in treating her wound and moving on was displayed within his cloudy eyes. The moment Vee unzipped the front of her vault suit all the way down to her naval, Charon couldn’t feel anything but puzzled. His eyes fixated on her lavender bra, all lacy and gifted to her by none other than Nova.

Bitterly he growled, casting his glance further down until all he could see was a mesh of blood, fabric, and flesh. Vee shivered, her 101-suit gathering at her hips, and with one final brace she rolled the cloth down and passed the injury. A sharp scream boiled out of her, muffled between her pressed lips the second it came. Exposed to the muggy air of the mart, she wrapped her fingers around the uninjured section of her thigh and squeezed, desperate to relieve the incredible pain. Of course, it did nothing but make everything worse.

“Charon… it hurts so bad,” she hissed as wet trails made their way down the lovely frame of her face.

“No shit,” he remarked, not meaning to sound so rude. He never understood stating the obvious, though. With his hands rose he paused, hovering over the reddened flesh apprehensively. “I’m no doctor. I’m not gonna be gentle about it,” he warned. With dewy eyes, Vee glanced up at him and swallowed pensively. Upon earning her curt nod of approval, Charon did what she was dreading. With rough hands he gripped around the patch of massacred flesh and squeezed with a might that could pop the hardest tick. It elicited a drawn scream out of her, which she’d attempted to mute with a grimy, sweaty hand clasped over her shaken mouth. Admittedly, Charon felt a pang of guilt at the sound. Slowly the pellets came popping out. Small bits of metal shrapnel and buckshot rained onto the ground. Only a few pieces, but big and nasty and would prove to make her life miserable if they were kept inside. Blood rivered between his fingers hot and gooey. As the last piece plopped from one of the dozens of little gaping holes peppering her exposed thigh, Charon was quick to inject the area with the stimpak. Already did the pain begin to dull—Vee’s cries lessened just a smidgen. Sweat laminated her skin, leaving a glossy sheen that oddly enough accented the various curves lining her body. As the woman fell to her back and panted heavily upon the dirty, nasty floor, Charon subconsciously observed the expanse of her flat, naked stomach. Sure, he knew she was a smoothskin, but seeing it all shiny like that made her seem far smoother than all other normies settled throughout the capitol.

Vee’s hand was draped over her eyes, blocking the sunlight that was casting strips of rays across her flesh. Either she’d forgotten that she was in nothing but her undergarments from the knees up, or she didn’t give a flying damn about him seeing. It didn’t change the agonizing fact that a beautiful woman lied bare beside him—a mercenary, but still a man—and Charon conjured up every bit of memory from his training. All those times he cried as a child or stared curiously at a woman who crossed paths with him, which led up to a night of terrible beatings to snuff all temptations out of him. It wasn’t hard to fall back to those enforced instincts.

Usually.

Usually things like this didn’t bother him. He’d been subjected to a terrible employer’s voyeurism. He’d stood guard outside two nice looking oak doors while rich people in Tenpenny banged to their hearts contents on the other side, where the walls were too thin to hold secrets. From smoothskins to ghouls to molerats, he’d seen countless possibilities and never once felt a thing. Even almost got to visit the strip club in New Vegas. But nobody was ever like her. No gal of the billboard quality; those bombshells slapped on every soda bottle and calendar. A war dog’s wildest dreams before the bombs fell, now turned into a straight up mythical fantasy because nowhere in the wasteland—from the burning buildings of D.C., to the richly radiated greeneries of the Appalachians, to the dark murky waters of Boston—was there a woman so clean and pampered and picture perfect like them prewar broads.

And yet there she was, right _freaking_ there, lying on the ground beside him.

Things like this shouldn’t bother him, regardless of how rare a lady. The only thing special about her was that she came from a vault. But with Vee, where those rules and regulations didn’t mean squat to her, it was tough to be what he was used to being. An indifferent—more so depressed—bodyguard with the tightest leash brainwashing could create. So when the usual void of interest thereof—which had sprouted into a curiosity within the last few weeks—had suddenly flared into a full-blown _want_ to indulge himself, Charon felt a force inside of him like a fist clenching his very being.

Fear.

Whatever it was he was feeling he wasn’t quite sure, but it was frightening him. Because feelings outside of the usual never happened. Never occurred to him in his two centuries of life on this desolate land. And if they did, he was far younger and more naïve.

Vee caused these feelings.

Nova unfortunately made that fact known to him. As prying as she was, he figured a woman knew a thing or two about it. A smoothskin that longed and could get romance still held onto that instinctual need. That _longing_.

A soft, shaken whimper tickled the shells of his ears. Glancing down, he observed Vee’s face to be stricken with grief. Downturned eyebrows mounting weary wrinkles, her plush bottom lip pinched between her perfect teeth as her chest rose and fall at an uneven pace. Her free hand was searching the floor for purchase, settling for wrapping around the base of her fallen rifle. Soft puffs of breath laced with ache sputtered out of her, once in a while intermingling with a moan muted only by the dryness of her parched throat. Charon heard the noise and felt his fists curl tighter. That noise made him feel all sorts of feelings: annoyance, pity, some other third thing he’d rather not list. Lovely eyes clouded by the peril she was enduring looked to him, a blush painting her high cheekbones.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, and it was like a force only he could feel was starting to constrict around him. But Charon was calm, and was professional, and was nothing but a servant. With a distant look he nodded, shifting his gaze away once he realized his sight gliding down to her small, petite neck and slender shoulders.

“Just give me… a bit… and then we’ll go. And Charon?”

“Yeah boss,” he grumbled, grateful that his hardened exterior showed no dents.

“I think you’ll be needing to carry me,” she whispered, donning that silly little smile that got his stomach into knots.

A gulp, and he noticed that he was parched, too. The room smelt of blood and mold, but there was an underlying scent of her sweat that lingered like a potent perfume. As Vee finally took control of her breathing, she fell totally silent, still not making a move in covering herself up.

All Charon could hear now was that incessant dripping.

***

“What happened?” the voice of a child rang in his ears.

Undoubtedly, this was one of the more uncompromising positions he had found himself in. With the Lone Wanderer hoisted up on his back, mindful of her injured thigh as her arms wrapped around her neck for leverage. The children were still incessant and nosy, even after Charon casted them hateful glances and droned at them to buzz off. But Hardened—being the son of the local sheriff—had this self-proclaimed right to get in on everyone’s business. And Maggie, who was severely fond of Vee, was prancing before them like a doe attempting to dodge the bulldozing car that was Charon, itching to get out of sight behind the closed doors of their own.

 _Their_ home.

He only recently started seeing it like that, and it was extremely concerning.

“Did you get shot?” Harden pressed, his rich tone glistening from the sweat he’d produced whilst playing around with the only other child in town. Maggie gasped.

“Are you hurt?” asked Harden.

“Is she going to die?” babbled Maggie.

“Why are you carrying her like that?”

“Can’t she walk?” But Maggie paused in thought, her brows fixed together as a new idea sprung in her bright eyes. Charon already hated what she was going to say. “Are you lovers? Billy says only lovers carry each other, and that’s why Harden can’t give me piggyback rides anymore.”

“But I’ve seen my dad carry around old Nathan after he tripped down the stairs to his house once!” retorted Harden, but Charon was too busy feeling his ragged flesh _burn_. All the while, Vee’s incessant chuckling had died the instant that last notion fluttered from the little girl’s mouth.

“Quite askin’ questions you damn rodents,” Charon growled, regardless of who was around to hear. Vee only chuckled, patting her ghoulish companion on the chest and… he swore his heart was going to burst. With a gulp, Charon did the only thing he knew would fix this problem and completely disappeared. Mentally, to be precise, and as he was slowly deleting and resetting himself as a computer booted up, Vee took the liberty to speak with the children.

“I’m fine, just hurt my leg is all.”

“Are you going to see Doc?” Harden asked.

“No, I’m fine. I’m a doctor, too,” Vee insisted, but Maggie casted a look of disbelief.

“Maybe you should go check with Mr. Church.”

“No, I said I’m fine Maggie.”

Hardened whispered into Maggie’s ear, “C’mon, maybe we should go tell Doc ourselves.” And with that—to Vee’s disdain—they were running off to the only recognizable practitioner within Megaton. From behind him, Charon could feel Vee’s chest swell with annoyance. That was yet again another instance where people disregarded her medical skills.

“You’re not a doctor,” Charon stated dryly, and almost instantly did she tighten her hold around his neck. Of course, it did nothing.

“I’m pretty much almost qualified to be one! Also, I didn’t know the wasteland had a standard to live up to, anyways…” she trailed off, her words oozing with sarcasm. Charon felt the corners of his lips twitch, almost into a smirk, but he did well enough to resist the urge. “How did you know it was there?”

“What?” he asked.

“The shotgun trap.”

Charon adjusted his hold on her legs as he stalked up one of the flights of stairs. “I heard it.” A thoughtful noise came from Vee. She wondered how that was possible. Surely, he must have undergone more than just external mutations. Curios about ghoulification, she considered the possibility that Charon had a heightened sense of perception. Either that, or she was too stupid to notice herself. With a big, fat frown on her face, Vee allowed her chin to rest on his shoulder. Earlier he instructed that she needed to be more observant, and to stop dropping her guard when the fights ended. Otherwise, she’d kill herself with such carelessness. Before, Vee would brush it off as Charon being paranoid. Now, she couldn’t help but shrink at how right he was.

The inside of the home was hot from the baking sun. Though Vee’s weight had yet to exhaust him, Charon settled for placing her down upon the couch. It felt like their return to Minefield allover again. Within seconds, she was being schooled by her robotic butler. Charon had been hoping that with all its incessant banter, Vee would be tempted to get rid of it as quickly as possible. It had yet to happen, but Charon could dream.

Turning to place his gear down, he could hear the small voice of his employer, speaking softer than she usually did.

“… Charon?”

“Boss,” he grunted in acknowledgement. Vee fell silent for a few seconds longer than she usually did. It made the ghoul terribly anxious.

“When I removed my clothes earlier did it… bother you?” she dared to ask, and it sounded difficult for her to do. “Does stuff like that make it awkward or hard?” Honestly, he never expected her to ask such a thing. Good natured as ever, she displayed nothing but concern and regret on her face. Pain, panic, and fear made people do the wildest things. Vee never seemed like the bold and brazen type when it came to exposure to such an extent. It wasn’t like she was full blown naked either, though, so the reason why she was so concerned about it—and for his sake too—was beyond his range of understanding. Earning nothing but a stern _no_ from the ghoul, Vee casted her glance downward to stare at the blazing hot floor of the rusty, metallic home.

“… are you sure?”

Never in his right mind did he reconsider anything that left his mouth, but at this very moment he wondered if he’d been what he’d always been trained to be.

Honest.

To be honest was to say, _yes, it does. Don’t ask me why._ But all Charon could muster was a rigid, “Yes, I’m sure.” Once again, he insisted that her indecency did nothing to him. Didn’t make him uncomfortable, didn’t make him anxious, didn’t make him _anything_.

Vee smiled, albeit it was smaller than usual.

“Well, I’m still sorry. I usually don’t do such careless things but I… panicked. And this suit means a lot to me, so…”

Silence. It was like a knife was cutting deep through the air, barely missing them. “Oh dear,” muttered the Mr. Handy as he sputtered about, aimlessly cleaning any crevice he could find. Charon was still at attention, unable to perform any leisurely thing without literally being told to do so. Standing at attention was his forte, his fallback, his comfort zone.

Obviously, he hated it.

Assessing the tattered mess of her vault suit leg, Vee reached forward to open a little compartment on the coffee table and retrieved a small sewing kit and some meds. Charon rolled his eyes—looked like she wasn’t visiting Doc anytime soon.

“I’ll be fine Charon. Why don’t you go relax outside? Grab yourself a beer or lounge at Gob’s.”

A tempting offer. Heavy eyes stared down at her, and if Vee wasn’t so used to him by now she would have felt like the entire earth was falling down on her from that stare alone. Slowly, almost venomously, Charon spoke to her.

“ **Don’t**. Do **anything**. **Stupid**. And don’t try going upstairs on your own either. You need help, you call for me. Don’t feel like finding your corpse with a broken neck because the mutt pushed you down.”

A yap was made by Dogmeat, who was beneath the table. This was probably the most Charon had ever spoken in one breath. With wide, startled eyes, Vee looked up at him in bewilderment—astonishment—all the while deciphering his words. Once she caught his meaning, her cheeks puffed out with annoyance as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“ _Dully_ noted. Now leave me be please. I’m about to be indecent.”

“I told you that shit doesn’t bother me,” Charon insisted, perhaps sounding too defensive.

And with that, the ghoul excused himself to sit outside, with his little makeshift table and warm beer to drown the taste of gunpowder lacing his tongue. The walls were thin enough for him to hear the Mr. Handy hound her once again, questioning her abilities of selfcare while incessantly shooing away a very curious, excited Dogmeat. Vee only groaned back in response, begging for the unit to leave her alone, and then there was the thudding, banging noises of her limping up the stairs. Against the frantic wishes of their robotic butler.

 _Their_.

How concerning, Charon thought, and he contemplated buying a bottle of whiskey from the bar. But he staggered from pushing himself off the weathered lawn chair at the thought of who’d be there. Surely Vee would be safe in her home, so that wasn’t a problem.

_Bet you its crossed one of your minds at least once or twice._

Almost like a haunting echo, Nova’s words left a nauseous feeling quelling up in Charon’s stomach. Rubbing his torn jawline, he fell back down into the chair with an unflattering _thud_ and settled against seeing that woman today. _Bullshit,_ he thought. _No smoothskin in their right mind would settle for a ghoul._ A flash of flushed, glistening skin and soft purple lace against even softer flesh flickered in his mind like an old film reel. Charon threw his head back and doused his throat with burning beer, wincing at the awful flavor and for once accepting the buzz bubbling in his brain that he hadn’t felt in almost twenty years. Anything to get that picture out of his mind.


End file.
